Honor Code
by Elliptic Eye
Summary: The Doctor. A sword. A duel for Martha's honor. From a prompt from LJ's whywastewords.


_"Look out!"_

Apparently ignoring her, the Doctor stood still, watching the blade swing toward his neck with a look of mild curiosity. At the last possible moment, he ducked.

Unfortunately, that was precisely what his attacker was expecting. Don Gulan let the momentum of his swing carry him forward and dropped to drive his fist into the Time Lord's kidneys.

"Doctor!"

He'd been sent sprawling, gasping a cough that sounded alarmingly watery. But the Trianoch champion took a moment to recover, too. As Don Gulan shifted to regain his balance, the Doctor levered the pommel of his sword against a flagstone and spun away across the floor.

Martha wanted to shut her eyes but didn't dare. "Doctor, are you all right?" she squeaked. God, was that her voice? She did not _squeak_.

He climbed to his feet without taking his eyes off his opponent. "Been better. Although, I've also been much, much worse. Now, would you give our friend Donnie a push in my direction so I don't have to stand here all day?"

Martha watched him quickly wipe blood from his mouth. "But you're hurt! Can't we… I don't know, call a time-out or something?"

He looked at her incredulously. "It's a _duel_, Martha."

Gulan attacked again. The Doctor parried his blow with obvious effort, and Martha swayed forward involuntarily.

"Stay back, Martha!"

She gestured angrily at the ceremonial guards standing on either side of her. "I haven't got much choice!"

The crowd ooohed as Gulan's sword sliced through the Doctor's sleeve, leaving behind a fine line of red on his wrist. "Oh, no, not going down that road again," he muttered.

"You said you were good at this!" cried Martha.

"I am good at this! Look here, Martha Jones--"

Gulan's sword landed on the pillar beside his head with a ringing of metal on stone.

"All right, I'm _moderately_ good at this."

The two men circled each other, skirmishing, dancing back, testing each other. Don Gulan seemed to be the strong, silent type: He didn't say a word, he had no sense of humor, and he handled his broadsword like it was a badminton racket. As the duel wore on and the Doctor began to tire, the smirk on his face steadily grew. Martha began to feel slightly sick.

She had to do something. Her eyes caught on Don Gulan's tassled ponytail as he backed toward her, preparing for another lunge. She bit her lip, gauging the distance between them… she braced herself… she tracked his feet—

Gulan leapt forward, his hair slipping from her grasp as two pairs of hands wrenched her backwards. The Doctor narrowly deflected Gulan's sword with his own, stumbling under the force of the attack.

One of the guards snarled in her ear as she stumbled back. "Mind your place!" Before she could reply, her head snapped back under his hand. Stars erupted across her vision.

Across the floor, the Doctor narrowed his eyes. Gulan scented his distraction and sprang.

The Doctor stepped into the charge. He plunged his hand between Gulan's legs, seized the tassle dangling from his coattail, and _yanked_.

Gulan of Trianoch was laid out flat on his back. The Doctor advanced until he stood directly over his opponent, planted his foot on his chest, and laid the tip of his sword against his throat.

"Do you, Don Gulan, champion of Dean Wyen of Trianoch, withdraw all challenge to the honor of Martha Jones?"

Gulan shook his head, dazed by the impact of his head on the flagstones. He gave a very satisfying swallow. "I do."

"Do you withdraw all claims that her report to the royal physician regarding the health of the Queen's child was fraudulent?"

"I do."

The Doctor pressed the blade gently against his neck. "Do you confess the purity of her scientific method, the rightness of her test design, and the stainlessness of her data collection?"

"I do," Gulan gasped.

"In short, you basically admit that you were dead wrong, and your master slandered Martha to clear a way to the throne?"

"Yes!"

White-faced, the Queen rose and signalled to Martha's guards. "Release her. Send for my physician to administer the draught she concocted at once." Their iron grip on Martha's arms dropped at once. Queen Plavel turned to the stammering Dean Wyen. "If my son dies, you will follow him."

Martha dashed to the Doctor's side, where he still held Don Gulan prone under his blade. "Say you're sorry," he said threateningly.

Gulan gritted his teeth. "Sorry."

The Doctor erupted into a happy grin and tossed his sword aside. "Right then!"

Martha tackled him in a hug. He picked her up and spun her around, laughing.

"Are you all right?" she asked into his neck.

"Of course!" He set her down lightly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You're bleeding out your mouth."

"Ah." He poked his tongue around his teeth. "So I am. Best check that in the TARDIS. Soonish. Still, nothing to worry about just yet." He tilted his head and examined her critically; she felt her face flush under his stare. "Which guard was it, again?" he asked, with deceptive lightness.

The last thing Martha wanted to was to spend any more time embroiled in this planet's politics. "I don't remember, and I don't care."

He stared at her hard a moment, then seemed to let it go.

"Well. Another life saved, Martha Jones. Probably. How does it feel?"

She blew out her breath. "Precarious," she said after a moment. She shook her head. "I can't believe this place. What do you call a system where people decide what's good science based on who wins the testosterone competition?"

The Doctor looked at the court buzzing around them: Ostentatious ornaments, stifling gowns, and flocks and flocks of mortar boards. At last he shrugged helplessly.

"Academia?"


End file.
